


Pretty Maids All in a Row

by veleda_k



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veleda_k/pseuds/veleda_k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman's face is her greatest work of art, and her greatest deception. And Angelina and Grell are both very skilled in deception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Maids All in a Row

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Splintered_Star](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splintered_Star/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Pretty Maids All in a Row](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8634514) by [archeoptah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeoptah/pseuds/archeoptah)



> Splinteredstar wanted something with Grell and Madame Red doing each other's makeup. I hope this suits.

Being female could be said to be an accident of birth. Being a woman certainly could not.

Angelina never really understood that until her child and her womb were ripped away from her. And even as everyone gathered around her and made sympathetic noises, they didn't truly _understand_. No one understood. Not until Grell. Angelina and Grell both knew what it was to be incomplete. They existed together among the jagged edges of womanhood, knowing they'd never be able to fit all the pieces together. (Jagged edges are sharp. Sharp enough to draw blood. Sharp enough to kill.)

Neither of them would ever be complete. The only thing they could do was hide the imperfections. A woman's face was her greatest work of art, and her greatest deception.

Angelina applied her face powder carefully. She could feel Grell's eyes on her, taking in her movements. Grell didn't need face powder, of course; her complexion was pale as death already. Society beauties would have lined up for her secret, if they saw the true her. (And wouldn't Grell have enjoyed giving them the answer.)

Angelina reached for the rouge, but Grell's hand stopped her. “Please, my dear, let me.” Angelina turned away from the mirror to face Grell. Grell took the rouge in hand very carefully and started to brush it on Angelina's cheeks.

Keeping still so Grell could work, Angelina felt like a child's doll. Or perhaps a corpse, set before an undertaker. An empty husk, to be made beautiful for one last grand departure.

“You're smiling,” Grell noted. “What happy thoughts are you thinking?”

“Corpses,” Angelina replied succinctly, a faint lilt in her voice.

“Oh, happy thoughts indeed. Anyone's in particular?”

“Mine.”

Grell frowned. “Surely not for some time, my sweet. We have so much left to do.”

“I didn't say I intended to die.” Angelina huffed a little.

“Good. I'd hate to lose you, seeing as you entertain me so. Now, hush. I'm going to do your lips.”

The red stickiness of the lip paint made Angelina think of blood. Blood on her lips, on her hands. She was drenched in blood. (But they deserved it. God, how did they deserve it. Sluts who wasted what they were given.)

“Relax, Madame.” Angelina blinked at the sound of Grell's voice and realized she had been clenching her fists. Grell ran a delicate finger along the underside of Angelina's lip. “Perfect. Now close your eyes.” Grell's skin brushed Angelina's as she applied the eye paint. Warmth pooled between Angelina's legs.

“Yes, magnificent.” Angelina opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. Grell had applied the face paint perfectly. Her lips were deep red, and her eye paint stood out, bright and dramatic, not at all the barely noticeable look ladies were supposed to attempt. It was her exactly. Grell checked the clock. “We should probably be on our way if we want to be only fashionably late.”

Angelina shook her head. “No. Your turn.”

“Darling, you know I'd love to, but I can't exactly show my true beauty at Sir James's tedious little party.”

Angelina smiled. “Let's skip it then. James is a bore anyway. And,” she added, a note of hunger in her voice, “we can have a party of our own.”

Grell grinned like a shark. “Don't tell me you found another one? And you didn't tell me!?”

“I was going to save her for later.” Angelina shrugged delicately. “But no time like the present.”

“No time at all.” But before Grell could shoot out of her chair, Angelina stopped her.

“You can't go out like that. Here, let me.” Angelina applied Grell's paint with the same deft, steady hand she used when she operated. Or when she killed. The rich reds she favored (the reds she hated yet was bound to) looked equally good on Grell. Bright, gaudy shades that no proper woman should have worn. But she was Madame Red, wasn't she? A jewel of London society. Even the respectable folks who disliked her habits still wanted her for their parties. And who could blame them? (And oh, if they knew. If they only knew.)

Finished, Angelina set down her paints and brushed a stray hair out of Grell's face. “Beautiful.” She pressed a kiss to the side of Grell's cheek. Grell growled and met Angelina's lips with her own. “I thought you were eager to get started,” Angelina murmured. 

“The little tart can wait an extra hour,” Grell said before she kissed Angelina harder.

“You'll ruin my face,” Angelina said with a little gasp.

“Darling,” Grell told her before she leaned to bite Angelina's neck, “I intend to ruin a great deal more than that.”


End file.
